Chapter Text
In the following weeks, Erik becomes awfully familiar with the cell. Herr Doktor’s experiments increase in frequency and difficulty and Erik fails more and more often. Whenever he does, or when he says something wrong, is too angry or too scared, Herr Doktor forces him into the cell for the night.
Erik’s hatred towards Schmidt grows, but he is careful, now. He never once attacks him again. Herr Doktor keeps kissing him, but Erik never pushes him away, never threatens him. He just locks himself far inside of his head when it happens, pretends he is somewhere else.
It works for a while. But then, Schmidt grows bolder.
The first time Erik completes the most difficult task Herr Doktor has made him do so far, creating a functioning gun from the scraps of metal the man gave him, Schmidt forces him to his knees. He works with his own powers more and more often now, pushing and hurting and forcing Erik with his unnatural strength.
He puts Erik on his knees, pushes him down so fast he hits the concrete floor with a painful thudding sound. And then, he steps up to him, closer, closer, until Erik is pressed against his leg, his crotch.
Schmidt twists a hand into Erik’s hair, makes him look up at him. He looks impossibly large like this, a giant towering above Erik. He is not smiling, this time, but there is something dark and satisfied in his eyes, nonetheless.
“You look good on your knees, my boy,” he says, and his voice is smooth and rich, a tone Erik hates, “your soulmate is a very lucky man. If you survive, I’m sure he’ll enjoy you like this often.”
He steps back, releases Erik so suddenly that he sways on his knees. He catches himself as he falls forward, landing on his hands. He should look up, he knows, to shield himself from the next hit, kick, punch. Or at least get up as not to appear so weak.
But he cannot. He can do nothing but stare down at the ground, his hands, and will the sick, awful feeling in his stomach to disappear. It doesn’t matter what Schmidt says about his soulmate, about this Chares. It doesn’t. Herr Doktor is lying, he is just saying this to scare Erik further. His soulmate will not, cannot be like Schmidt. He will not enjoy doing this to Erik the way Schmidt does. He won’t.
Herr Doktor leaves him alone after that. Sends him back to his mother, telling him their training session is over for today. Erik tells her nothing of what happened, neither of the experiment with his powers nor Schmidt’s words and actions afterwards. He just lies down and pretends to sleep, drowns out the cacophony of misery all around him as best as he can, the groans and whimpers, the prayers and pleas.
He tries to sleep. Tries to calm his mid, empty his thoughts and let the darkness of sleep save him from the feeling of disgust settling deep inside of him.
That day is the first of many where Erik does not take comfort in the reminder on his arm. Does not touch the black letters, imagining safety and love; a better future. Instead, he pushes down his sleeve as far as it can go and wishes his skin were unmarred, unharmed, unmarked.
*
Days pass. Erik shapes coins into bullets, scrap metal into another gun, makes two desks float, melts a doorknob. He throws a knife at Herr Doktor with only his powers and makes the knife stop two centimetres before Herr Doktor’s eyes, just like Schmidt had commanded.
He forms metal into rope and binds his own his hands with it, stares straight ahead as the Doktor congratulates him on a job well down and lets his hands wander over Erik’s body while he is bound, exploring, touching, taking.
He falls asleep next to his mother some nights, when he isn’t forced into the cell. He holds her and she holds him, and he tries not to notice how thin she is growing again despite the food, despite her health having improved a little.
Herr Doktor has kept his word, he is feeding Edie, but not even the extra food seems to keep her from slowly waning, slowly wasting before Erik’s eyes. It feels as if he were losing her, watching her disappear, and there is nothing he can do to stop it.
Herr Doktor talks more to him, now. He speaks of mutation and of power, of the inherent differences between humans and mutants.
“We are the better kind,” he whispers into Erik’s ear while Erik melts a knife into an iron poker and back into a knife, better than what it had once been, “we are the better race. The more powerful one, the more deserving one. Just look at what they do to each other, these humans. This war, this misery. They are no better than animals, and no smarter, either. But we, Erik, we. We are the children of God; we are the ones who should rule. And we will. I will. With your help and that of our kind, I will rule.”
He kisses Erik deeply after all of these tangents, kisses him and whispers about his soulmate, words Erik hates and hates and hates and yet can never escape.
“That soulmate of yours,” Schmidt says as he trails his hand down Erik’s arm, breath hot on Erk’s face, “he might be human. He likely is. That means you are better than him, Erik. I am shaping you into the best version of yourself. You will be able to kill him with a twitch of your fingers once I am done with you. And you should. You will. No one wants something as used-up as you, do they, Erik? Your Charles will take one look at you, and he will only feel disgust. But you are powerful, my boy, and you will make him suffer. We will make them all suffer.”
Erik wants to believe none of what Herr Doktor says. He tries not to, tries to shut his mind off against his words, his touch. But the words stay with him. The idea of it. Of disgust and rejection.
And of power.
*
Winter has set in. The air is so cold Erik can see his breath even when he breathes through his nose, white puffs hanging in the air, the cold biting into his skin through clothes that are barely more than rags.
They are dying. They all are, the prisoners in the camp, and not just because the Nazis beat and hurt and burn them. The cold is enough to do it too now, weak as they are, underfed and underdressed. Winter is the enemy, and they have no weapons to fight it. For now, Erik is still healthy, kept inside Herr Doktor’s warm office most days. His mother, still fed more than the other prisoners because of the deal Erik made, hasn’t succumbed to winter, either. She is not healthy, but she is alive. These days that’s all Erik asks for.
He is forced to leave the barracks earlier than usually today, led by a new guard, the man’s grip tight around his arm, pulling Erik behind him through the light snow that has settled. On the way to Herr Doktor’s office, they walk past another prisoner, a man Erik has never once seen. The man, however, seems to recognise him.
“Schwuchtel,” the inmate hollers, looking at Erik as he shouts the slur, “asked for it again, did you? How often does the Doktor fuck you in there, huh, boy?”
Erik flinches, but the guard next to him just laughs. It is a gleeful sound, an awful one.
“He is the only faggot in that building,” he says, nodding at Erik, “go back to work.”
The other man, not as thin as most of them, does. He walks past Erik and Erik sees the flash of a green triangle on his arm as he leaves. The sign of a kapo, an inmate used by the Nazis to supervise other prisoners, a system of turning them against each other. Not someone Erik ever wants to cross again. The man’s words ring in his mind, and suddenly, every step towards Herr Doktor’s office seems even more difficult than usually.
The guard leaves him and Herr Doktor alone as he always does, but he leaves with a long glance and a furrow between his brows. Erik stares at the floor when he notices Herr Doktor catching the look. His hands are trembling. Dread has settled inside of him, a sense of foreboding, of something awful about to happen.
Herr Doktor hums from across the room, a contemplating sound.
“Look at me, Erik.”
Erik does. It is almost automatic, now, an ingrained response: Herr Doktor commands, and he listens. He hates himself for it and yet, he cannot stop it. Herr Doktor is frowning, too, a contemplating look. He has his hands folded under his chin, glasses low on his nose.
Erik can feel his heart pick up in speed, can feel his breath quickening. His hands, crossed behind his back the way Herr Doktor often likes them to be, clench.
“Did you and the guard talk on your way here?”
There is something sharp and dangerous in Herr Doktor’s voice. Something that Erik knows from experience will lead to pain. He does not want to answer. But what Erik wants hasn’t mattered in a long time. He breathes in, makes his tongue move.
“No, Herr Doktor.”
“No? Did something else happen, then?”
Herr Doktor’s voice is soft. But there is no emotion in the older man’s eyes, just coldness. Erik swallows and makes himself say it. It feels like signing his own death warrant.
“A- Another prisoner, Herr Doktor. He called me- He called me faggot. And he implied you- he- He implied you might be one, too.”
It rushes out of him, the last sentence, a garbled mess of words. His heart is in his throat. He is sweating, cold pearls of it on his forehead, his palms. He clenches his hands harder, digs his fingernails into his arm. Reaches for his soulmark, strokes it, over and over again, frantic. Whatever is about to happen, it will not be good.
Herr Doktor hums.
“And? Do you believe that I am, Erik? Am I like you?”
He nods towards Erik’s arm where, beneath the yellow star, the pink triangle is sown on his threadbare shirt. He wants to reach up, cover it instinctively, but he does not dare to.
He doesn’t know what to say. Yes is the answer Erik wants to give, yes.
Because Herr Doktor is the one who keeps kissing Erik, who touches him and looks at him with that glint in his eyes. He is the one who initiates, and Erik never wanted any of these things Herr Doktor makes him do. But Herr Doktor wants them. Herr Doktor wants him.
But he cannot say it. If he says it, he thinks Schmidt might kill him.
“I- I don’t know.”
Herr Doktor nods. He pushes his chair back, gets up slowly. He takes his time with his approach, a lion caging its prey. Erik feels small, and he feels sick. Whatever is about to happen, he doesn’t want it. He can feel the metal all around him, can feel his senses screaming out for it, can feel the need to stop her Doktor with cuffs made from scrap metal, to yank the older man back by the buttons and zippers on his clothes, the need to shape another weapon – something that finally, finally might allow him to defend himself.
But there is no winning against Herr Doktor. Every bit of power Erik would use to try and defend himself Herr Doktor would just utilise against him. Hurt Erik, instead.
“You are sick, boy,” Herr Doktor says, setting on foot in front of the other, a slow approach. The distance between them shrinks. Erik is shaking now, tremors all over.
“You are sick. Anyone like you is sick. But I am not.”
Erik hates that word; the sickness people think he has just because he likes men as well as women. It is this word that breaks him as easily as nothing else could have, the connotation of yet another part of him being wrong, not just his religion, not just his mutation, but his love, too.
The one thing about him that is supposed to be pure and untouched. The one part of him no one should get to take from him. His nails dig deep into his soulmark, and he forces himself to stand taller, to make his words count.
“But the man was right!” He spits and wishes he didn’t sound so weak, wishes he could make himself spit Schmidt in the face instead, make himself large and imposing, a threat to this monster. “You like men too! You do.”
Herr Doktor smiles, victorious. It is an awful, terrifying expression. A mockery of humanity splayed over his face in a wide mouth and exposed teeth.
“No,” Herr Doktor says, lingering on the word, “das tue ich nicht. I don’t. I like power.”
He reaches out then, grabs Erik’s shoulders like he has done so often and pushes him down with so much force Erik’s legs give out.
He lands hard on the concrete floor, with a thud that has him gasping in pain. Herr Doktor only smiles. He leans down a little and wraps his hands around Erik’s throat, a gesture sickeningly familiar already, the most obvious sign of power over Erik that Herr Doktor seems to favour so.
He squeezes and Erik gasps, fights, pushes, but it is not enough. It never is enough.
He can do nothing but kneel there, fruitlessly trying to escape, clawing at Schmidt’s hands, staring up at him with wide open eyes, throat constricting. His eyes are watering already and through a sheen of tears he sees Schmidt step even closer to him, so his thigh brushes Erik’s kneeling form, his hips level with Erik’s head. The Doktor presses up against him insistently, and he is hard, Schmidt is hard, and Erik would gag if he had any control left over his body.
Schmidt thrusts forward, just a bit, rubbing himself against Erik’s tear-stained cheek, and when he speaks, his voice is breathless.
“See, my little one? See? Your tears, not your body. Power, Erik, power. Not men.”
He leans back just enough to unzip, take himself out of his pants. He releases Erik’s neck to do so and Erik sags, heaving big, gasping breaths of air. His heart is thundering in his ribcage, his head swimming. His mind is screaming at him to get away, but he cannot move. Terror has frozen him, and he cannot move.
Herr Doktor steps closer again, and Erik shuts his eyes and beg and begs and begs. He can do nothing but, babbles mindless, panicked words, sucks in desperate breaths of air – but when Herr Doktor takes himself in hand and shoves himself in Erik’s trembling, gasping mouth, he cannot even do that anymore.
*
Afterwards, Erik throws up bile and spit and nothing else because the Doktor has not deigned to feed him today. After forcing Erik to suck him off, Schmidt didn’t keep him for long. He brought him back to his cell almost immediately and Erik is awfully, absurdly grateful for that because he does not want to be even weaker in front of that monster than he already has been.
He curls up in the corner of the room, allows himself this sign of weakness now that no one is watching. He does not cry, but he makes himself small, bring his arms up around himself and wishes his mother were here. He does not think she would blame him for this, does not think she would call him disgusting. He thinks she would hold him instead. He wants her, he wants her here, and it does not even matter to him that she would know what Herr Doktor has done to him.
He needs her. He needs the one person left on this earth who loves him.
It takes long, with the ghost of Schmidt’s touch, that of his weight in Erik’s mouth, but eventually, Erik calms down. His breathing evens out, his heart slows down, his head clears. He can think again.
Schmidt is unpredictable. Erik knew that. But even so, he never thought- He never thought- Perhaps he was a fool, perhaps he was naïve, but he never thought about Schmidt going further than forcing Erik to kiss him. He hasn’t dared think about it.
This is not where Herr Doktor will stop, Erik knows that. He saw it in the man’s eyes just before he finished: Schmidt wants more. He wants to take Erik apart piece by piece, until nothing is left that could still be saved.
It is a terrifying thought. But in some ways, it is a numbing one, too. Herr Doktor already has unlimited power over Erik. Erik’s life is already in Schmidt’s hands. This new discovery, while terrifying, does not really change that fact. Schmidt will do what he wants, and Erik is powerless to stop him.
Erik breathes out. Presses his forehead to his knees, curled up as he is. He has realised it now: He will die. He will die here.
He knew it. Everyone knows it. Once you are forced into the camps, you never leave again. You die here. A slow, painful death. Erik has always been aware of that. Now, in the cold, dark cell Schmidt has put him into for easy access, that terrifying knowledge takes on new dimensions. His perspective on his death shifts. The reason for his death shifts.
Because the camp is not what will kill Erik.
Schmidt is.
*
Erik grows numb. Schmidt puts him through different, more creative tests. He makes Erik bend and twist solid chairs into abstract sculptures, makes him cut into his own arm with a thin wire until he bleeds and screams in pain, makes him focus until a knife is almost red from the heat Erik manages to produce within its metal.
Erik does it. Erik does everything Schmidt tells him to.
And after the run-in with the kapo and all that followed, Schmidt uses their evening together differently. At the end of their training sessions, alone in Schmidt’s office, when Erik is panting in exhaustion, when he is almost keeling over from concentrating for so long and not properly having eaten in days, Schmidt will order Erik to his knees. He will order him to open his mouth, to suck and choke. He will order him to use his hands, sometimes, will order him to breathe or not to breathe, to beg or not to beg, to moan or not to moan, to follow and kneel and crawl, to position himself in any way Schmidt wants him to. To swallow or spit or close his eyes and not wipe off the cum Schmidt leaves on his face.
Erik always complies. And Schmidt always smiles at him as if he were proud of what he has shaped Erik into.
Some days, Erik is forced to stay naked after Schmidt is done with him. Erik can count his ribs by merely looking down, now, and he only rarely flinches anymore when a guard’s hands or eyes trail down his body. When Schmidt’s eyes trail down his body, hungry, hungry, hungry.
Erik does not care, or he tells himself he doesn’t.
Because he cannot resist it. He cannot, or his mother will die. Herr Doktor had whispered it to him after the third time he forced Erik to blow him, voice low, eyes burning.
“You will be good for me,” he had said, warmth breath ghosting over Erik’s tears-stained, snot-stained face, “or Edie will die by my own hand.”
Erik had nodded. Had forced himself not to speak, not to throw up or beg. He cannot change it. He is whatever Herr Doktor wants him to be, he does whatever Herr Doktor wants him to do. Herr Doktor wants him to comply, or he will kill his mother. So Erik will comply, regardless of how much it makes him hate himself, makes him hate his body.
Herr Doktor knows that, too. He enjoys it. He loves it. With every passing day, with Schmidt demanding more, taking more, Erik’s inevitable future feels as if it were coming closer and closer: He will die here. Malnourished, abused and terrified, he will waste away further each passing day until nothing is left. And Schmidt, with his empty eyes and empty smile, will watch.
*
Schmidt put Erik in the cell without food, without water. What for, Erik cannot remember. Reality feels far-away, stuck in the dark as he is, hungry, thirsty, cold. He remembers a training session, remembers dropping whatever Schmidt wanted him to hover in the air. He remembers the man hitting him, impossibly hard, with that strength no human has. He remembers blacking out and waking up here, lips red-bitten, saliva on his top lip, the scent of Schmidt all over him. He woke to Herr Doktor leaving him in his cell, to a sliver of light shining in from the hallway, quickly gone as Herr Doktor shut the door behind him.
He remembers crying and begging and screaming, clawing at his lips, his face. He does not know what Herr Doktor did to him after he had knocked him out. Whether he just kissed him or if there was more.
It seemed so important in these first few hours alone in the cell, knowing what the monster had done to him. It does not seem important, anymore. Not in this darkness, not knowing how much time has passed.
Perhaps this time, Erik will be left to die here.
But Herr Doktor comes back. After how much time, Erik cannot tell. The spit on his lip has long dried, and his throat hurts from the screaming, crying, the lack of water. It could have been hours. It could have been days. Stuck in this darkness, time has lost all meaning.
Schmidt lets himself in quietly, but his steps are confident as always, his figure imposing to Erik cowering in the corner.
Though he is weak, though he is tired, and afraid, so, so afraid, Erik’s senses automatically strain to find any hint of metal the Doktor might be wearing, anything he can use to defend himself, shield himself against whatever Herr Doktor wants to do to him. Anything he could use to simply just feel.
But there is nothing. To his metal senses, Schmidt feels as dead to Erik as the room around him.
Schmidt leaves the door open a sliver, allows light to spill inside, illuminating the cell. It hurts Erik’s eyes, but he cannot close them. He does not want to make himself even more vulnerable than he already is. So he watches as Herr Doktor takes in Erik on the floor, cowering in a corner to protect himself from the cold as much as he can. Schmidt comes closer slowly, a hunter cornering its prey. Erik wants to stand, wants to shout and fight, but he can barely move. He is tired. He is hungry. He is thirsty. He feels as if death were coming closer with every passing hour, every single breath he takes, and Schmidt’s slow approach only makes that feeling intensify.
“Stretch out your left arm,” Schmidt commands. Erik bites his tongue until he can feel blood. He doesn’t want to. His soulmate words, traced so often when he needs comfort, are the only anchor he still has, the only hope he allows himself. He doesn’t want Schmidt to take that away from him, too.
Schmidt clicks his tongue.
“Your arm, Erik. Now.”
Erik complies. His arm hangs in the air uselessly, trembling weakly. He feels as if he had barely any muscles left in this weak body of his. Sometimes, he feels as if all his strength had been taken from him – mental and physical, everything gone.
Herr Doktor comes closer, kneels next to Erik. Even so, he is imposing, threatening. He takes Erik’s skinny arm, holds it tight. Trails his fingers down the length of it, starting at his shoulder, gliding over cloth and then bare skin. Erik shudders as goosebumps erupt over his skin. He wants to look away, but he cannot. He watches as Herr Doktor’s fingers come closer to the words on his wrists, the sliver of hope he allows himself.
Herr Doktor stops there. He trails the words and then holds Erik’s arm. Grips Erik’s wrist tightly, covers the traitorous words, his shame, his sin, but also his lifeline.
Erik wants to beg him to let go. He cannot have Herr Doktor take this away from him, too. But his tongue will not move, and Herr Doktor smiles as if he knew what Erik was thinking. His expression is void of any humanity.
“You know, Erik,” Schmidt whispers, breath hot and sour, fanning over Erik’s face with how close he is, “this is your fault. If you didn’t have these pretty words, I’d be content to just practise with you. Help your powers grow, help you grow. But like this, with these words on you… It’s temptation, my boy. You’re tempting me. Such a pretty boy and also a queer? I can’t not think about what we could do together. All these possibilities between two men. I am teaching you. I am helping you. If you ever leave here, you will know exactly what men want. What that soulmate of yours will want from your pretty body.”
He lets go of his arm and Erik chokes back a whimper and tucks his arm against his chest. Herr Doktor shifts, leans closer, body now covering Erik’s, lips pressed against his cheek, then his mouth. Schmidt kisses him, and Erik forces himself to remain motionless, not to flinch, not to retch, not to hit.
This will stop, he tells himself, it will be over soon, it always is, it will be over soon-
Schmidt’s lips trail lower, a burning path down Erik’s cheek, to his chin, then his throat. Herr Doktor has never gone this far, has never tarnished this much of Erik, and Erik feels sick. Schmidt kisses him there, feather-light, a kiss placed directly on Erik’s racing pulse, his fluttering heartbeat. Erik whimpers, the sound ripping out of him.
No, no, no-
Schmidt bites down, right over Erik’s jugular, and Erik screams. A terrified, helpless sound. But it isn’t Schmidt’s bite, his low chuckle reverberating against Erik’s throat that make the tears gathering in Eriks eyes overflow. It’s his words, ringing loudly in Erik’s head.
I am teaching you. You’ll know exactly what that soulmate of yours will want from you.
Erik feels sick. Disgusted and disgusting. Schmidt’s lips trail even lower now, down to Erik’s collar bone, his striped shirt easily pushed aside. Erik bites his lips and muffles another scream. He does not want this. He does not want this. Not from Schmidt and certainly not from his soulmate, wherever he might be.
Schmidt’s hands come up. Yank at Erik’s shirt, clutch at his bony shoulders. He takes it off, rips the threadbare cloth from Erik. His shirt, then his pants. He pushes Erik down, makes him lie down and Schmidt follows, bigger, stronger. Cover’s Erik’s body with his own. He holds and grips and scratches. He kisses and licks and bites and as his hands come lower and lower, as his tongue forces its way into Erik’s mouth, Erik squeezes his eyes shut and tries to float far, far away from his body.
If this is what men do with each other, he hopes that Schmidt will kill him before he ever has to meet his soulmate.
*
Hours later, Schmidt reappears once more.
After he was done, he left Erik a shivering, hyperventilating mess on the cold floor. He left with a satisfied hum and a grin that Erik will forever see in his nightmares. Erik had not had the strength to get dressed again. He had simply curled up on the floor, shivering, crying, and praying to a God he did not believe in anymore to be rescued from this hell.
He is hurting, even now. The pain feels as if it hadn’t lessened even slightly, shooting up from between his legs, from the spot where Herr Doktor bit his throat, from where Herr Doktor bit his lip, too, right as he came, a brutal mockery of a kiss.
Erik’s head hurts. His eyes, do, too. He cried the entire time, while Herr Doktor took and took and took, turned Erik’s body into something Erik does not want to think about. Something Erik no longer owns. He should get dressed; he knows that. Should have gotten dressed a long time ago, but the thought of moving, the thought of operating his shaking limbs, of looking down at his body, has only made Erik retch, spitting bitter bile on the floor.
He feels as if he will die. He feels as if nothing, nothing in this world will ever be right again.
Herr Doktor broke him, and it took nothing for him to do so. Only the man’s own pleasure, he greedy hands, his bruising touch. His moans and awful words, the praise, the whispers about how Erik’s soulmate would take just like Herr Doktor was taking, would love this just as much as Schmidt was loving it.
For the first time since he has been forced into this cell, Erik wishes he would never leave it. He never wants to see Herr Doktor again. Never wants to face his mother, not with Herr Doktor’s touch so evident all over him. He wants to die in here.
But God has stopped listening to Erik’s prayers a long time ago. Eventually, after hours of shivering, praying, crying in the dark, the door to Erik’s cell opens again. Light floods the room this time, painful, and Erik whimpers, curls up in the corner.
It is Herr Doktor. He steps inside as if nothing were amiss, as if he hadn’t just taken Erik apart in the cruellest way possible. He does not come closer, stays leaning against a wall, looking down on Erik.
“Get dressed, mein Junge,” he says, and his voice brooks no argument. “I’ve let you rest for long enough.”
Erik wants to protest, but he cannot speak. He can do nothing but move sluggishly, slowly, and put on his clothes. It is painful, and he winces with every bit of movement. But he obeys. His head feels empty. As if a wall had been built, shielding him from everything that lies beyond the present moment. From the memories of what happened just hours ago in this very room.
He steps outside slowly, swaying on his feet. He does not look up, keeps staring at the floor in front of him. Herr Doktor is leading him to his office, but he does not touch Erik. The warmth of the office after the freezing cold in the cell makes Erik’s head spin and fists clench. Tears are burning in his eyes, and he can feel his control over his powers slipping, reaching out automatically to all the metal around him, trying to steady himself.
They’re not alone, here. There is someone else in the room, a man Herr Doktor talks to in German, voice clipped, clear commands. Erik should listen, so he can protect himself if necessary, but all he hears is a rushing sound in his ears, filling his head with static.
The voices drift by without him understanding a word even though they are speaking in his mother tongue. He lets them. He is trying to reach that place he goes to when Herr Doktor kisses him or makes him suck him off, the place where nothing can touch Erik. The place that escaped him earlier, when Herr Doktor pressed him to the cold, hard ground and- and-
A hand grabs his arm tightly and Erik flinches. A sound makes it over his lips, a weak plea, a startled gasp. It is a guard, holding him, fingers digging into Erik’s thin arm. He sneers at Erik.
“Was, jetzt bist du ängstlich?“
What, now you’re scared?
No, Erik wants to say, no. He has been scared for so long. Longer than he has been here, even, years before he and his mother got forced into the camp. But he won’t tell the guard that. He won’t give the man any more power than he already has, won’t give him anything else to hold over his head.
He just drops his eyes again and when the guard starts walking out, long, purposeful strides, he follows. He tries to keep up. The grip the older man has around his arm hurts already, and he does not want to know what it’d feel like if the guard truly dragged him.
“Goodbye, Erik,” Herr Doktor calls after them in a warning tone. Erik does not turn around; he does not respond.
He only follows the guard outside, into the cold, the slowly falling snow. It is night already. Snowflakes drift down slowly, landing on the muddy ground. Erik glances up at the dark sky, the few stars he can see. He used to love nights like these: Cold air, moonshine, gently falling snow. They used to bring him comfort, back when he was a small child.
There is nothing comforting about tonight. He does not enjoy the falling snow, the moonlight. They do not soothe him anymore. They only make him feel small and alone. Erik lets himself be dragged by the guard, towards the barracks, towards his mother without struggling. It is hard enough to keep himself upright.
As he stumbles behind the guard, snowflakes landing on his face and melting, little pinpricks of cold, Erik wishes the man would just leave him here. Drop him right where they are standing, outside, in the winter cold, so Erik can fall sleep without anyone noticing, and never wake up again.
*
In the barracks, Erik curls up next to his mother. It is freezing inside as well, but he dares not huddle too close, because he does not want to wake her. She will take one look at him and know what happened.
And he- He can’t. He cannot have his mother look at him, her only son, and see what Herr Doktor did to him. He does not want to see the pity in her eyes, does not want to see anger. Does not want to see disgust.
Erik curls up, makes himself small. Tries to put all thoughts of his mother finding him revolting because of what happened to him far out of his mind. He tries to forget what happened in the cell, Herr Doktor’s hands on his body, his voice in Erik’s ear, his body on Erik’s.
He tries to forget himself, too: The way his body feels, bruised, hurt, the way every breath he takes is a little closer to a sob. The way his wrist burns where Herr Doktor gripped him, right over his soulmark.
The way the words on his skin no longer feel like comfort, but judgment.
*
When Erik wakes, the room is grey all around him. The sun is just rising, little light coming in through the tiny windows, light as cold as everything else around him. Erik blinks awake slowly with tired, swollen eyes. The atmosphere around him, the greyness, the cold, the morning light – it all gives the room a dream-like feeling.
Erik’s head hurts, his throat and between his legs, but still, the morning feels pleasantly hazy. Something far removed from his reality.
It takes him a moment to figure out why he woke up in the first place. There is movement in his hair a gentle, stroking motion, so different form Herr Doktor’s tight, bruising grip. A familiar movement.
Erik shifts just enough to look up. His mother is already looking down at him, one hand stroking his hair like she used to when he was a child. She touches him, his matted and tangled hair, and her touch is light, her fingers bony. It grounds him. She is the only thing that seems real in this dream-like state, the only constant.
She has one arm wrapped around him, has pulled him against her own tired, thin body, sharing body heat. She allows for the gentleness Erik has been forced to go without for so long. She holds him softly, careful not to hurt him.
And she is looking down at him with sorrow in her eyes. She knows. She knows what Herr Doktor did to him yesterday. How, Erik doesn’t understand, but there is no doubt in his mind: His mother knows.
There is no disgust in her eyes, no anger, no pity. Only sorrow and, even stronger than that, love.
She doesn’t say a word and neither does Erik. He can’t. He can barely stand it, being looked at with so much love despite what has happened to him, despite the war in his mind made evident on his body in the form of bruises and fingerprints, scratches and protruding bones.
And Edie just looks at him. She pets his hair; she holds him tight. And then, she leans down.
She brushes her lips over Erik’s cheek, a kiss between family members, just a touch. Softness, and love.
And Erik-
Erik breaks. He sucks in a breath, clenches his hands into fists. And he begins to cry.
It is soundless. Erik has long since learnt how to cry silently, the only outlet for his fear, his pain being the shaking of his shoulders, the warm tears running down his face. How his teeth dig into his bottom lip, how his eyes squeeze shut. His mother holds him, presses him against her, keeps him safe and warm.
Erik lets himself cry. He lets himself be weak. He will not be shamed for it, he knows. He will not be hurt for it. Right here, in his mother’s arms, he can be just a child. A son. Not a mutant, not a homosexual, not a Jewish man persecuted for his faith. But someone’s child. Someone who is loved.
His mother lets him cry. She gives him the space for it, and in turn, Erik gives himself the space to feel. He lets himself feel it all: the shame, the anger, the terror, the disgust and the ever-lasting, awful hopelessness he can’t seem to escape. The sickening knowledge that this will be his life. That Schmidt will take and take and take until Erik is dead.
“I am sorry,” he finally babbles into his mother’s shoulder, louder than he should be this early in the morning with other prisoners sleeping around him or trying to. “I‘m sorry, es tut mir so leid, es tut mir leid Mama, ich will das nicht, ich wollte es nicht-”
I’m sorry. I didn’t want it.
It is all he can say, all that he manages between sobs. His mother doesn’t ask for more. She just holds him tight, and he clings to her until his sobs abate and the shaking stops, until he feels strong enough to move. Until he feels brave enough to lean back. To look at his mother and have himself be seen.
Mama’s eyes are wet with unshed tears. She is pale and her hands, still holding Erik, are trembling. She takes a deep breath, opens her mouth to speak. Her voice is shaking, her hands are, too. But her words are full of conviction.
“Es ist nicht deine Schuld,” his mother tells him, and he has never heard her be this insistent before, “Erik, it is not your fault. Believe me. You are not the same as him. Whatever he does, whatever happened, it was not your fault. It will never be.”
There is no doubt in her expression, nor her voice. There is no disgust.
There is only love.
Erik closes his eyes against the force of it. He is still trembling, but his eyes are dry now. There are words on the tip of his tongue, words said by Schmidt, words he needs to tell his mother. He needs her to hear them. He needs her to make them less real.
“He said that my soulmate would- that he’d- that he’d do the same to me. What Herr Doktor did yesterday. He- he- he said he’d be like him. That he’d also-”
He breaks off. He can’t. He can’t. Saying it out loud makes it seem too real. And Erik cannot have it be real. He cannot let Herr Doktor take this from him, too.
His mother, his Mama, reaches out. Slips her hand from his head to his arm, clasps around his wrist like Schmidt did yesterday and yet different in all the ways that matter. Like this, her gentle hold on his arm, she covers his tattoos: the natural one, his soulmark, a sign of love, and the unnatural one, the number that was forced onto him, a sign of hatred.
She covers them both, and when she speaks her voice commands his attention. Her voice is quiet, but hard.
“That man is not your soulmate. And whatever he says about your Charles is wrong. He is nothing like Charles will be. Your soulmate will love you Erik, and you will love him.”
She does that often, talk about Erik’s soulmate as if she knew him, using his first name in familiarity. As if she were certain that Erik will live to meet him. As if she knew and liked the man whose name Erik carries on his wrist.
Erik swallows. He wants to speak but the words are stuck in his throat. His Mama continues. Her grip is gentle, still, and her eyes are full of love.
“I need you to listen now, mein Schatz. What that man does to you does not diminish your worth, and it does not diminish your love. Charles will not be like him. You will not be like him, mein Schatz. You will be good, Erik, and you will be kind. You will live. You will live, and you will find your Charles. Your soulmate will love you. He will not mind what Herr Doktor does to you. It will not matter between you two, Erik. And if- if he does mind, if he- If he minds, Erik, you leave. You leave, Erik. You are worth someone who loves you the way you are. Whether that’s Charles or not.”
She is holding him tighter now, fingers closed around his wrist. It does not feel painful, does not feel like taking, as it had with Schmidt. It feels like an anchor instead. His mother, giving him strength.
You will live.
It is these words more than anything that break him fully. They make him fall apart, this display of certainty, of a better life that his mother can envision when he himself is unable to. Erik shatters. He breaks, right there in his mother’s arm, sobbing and begging and cursing, and all around him prisoners shout at him, complain or wail as well, sounding just as broken as he feels.
He pays them no mind. He simply hugs her, his mother, his rock. She hugs him back, holds him tight, and slowly, slowly, Erik can feel the shattered parts of himself begin to knit back together.
***
Days pass. Then weeks, then months. Erik catches a glimpse at a calendar on Herr Doktor’s desk, and when he sees the current date, his heart skips a beat. They have been in here for almost a year, now. Almost a year of torture and suffering. They are still alive. Somehow, they are still alive.
The days keep bleeding into each other. It is the same suffering every day, the same hunger, fear, brutality. Erik’s body grows stronger, his mind grows sharper, his powers increase. As does his fear. As does his disgust with himself. As does Schmidt’s use and abuse of him.
He tries not to let it touch him. Tries to stay inside of his head when Schmidt pushes into him, to float far away from reality. And he lets himself be selfish. Lets himself search for comfort when he is allowed to see his mother, when he is allowed to sleep next to her. He lets her soothe him and he does his best to soothe her, in turn.
At one point, Erik begins to think that perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps they will not die in here. Perhaps they will never die. Perhaps they’ll be stuck in this hell forever, with no means of escape and no means of easing their pain.
And then, the day comes where Erik’s world breaks apart irrevocably.
*
It starts like any other day.
They are in the middle of winter now, and the cold has infused Erik’s very bones. He shivers when he wakes up, shivers when he is with Herr Doktor, shivers when he falls asleep. His mother does, too. The other prisoners as well. All around him, people are dying. Their gaunt faces, their blue lips, chapped skin and thin bodies – they haunt Erik’s dreams. The cacophony of suffering all around him, of barked orders, cries, screams, begging. It will never let him go; he thinks. These sounds will forever be seared into his brain.
Erik falls sick. Herr Doktor makes him train regardless, but he does not touch him while Erik is sick, nearly keeling over from exhaustion, running nose and a terrible cough, shaky, weak limbs.
Despite the sickness, it might be the best week Erik has had in almost a year. Free of touch, free of Herr Doktor’s taking. He does not even have to suck Herr Doktor off.
But his sickness passes. He doesn’t know how, when he sleeps so little, eats so little. Herr Doktor says it is because he is a mutant and that means he is naturally stronger than humans.
“A human would have succumbed to this,” Erik he says after he first kisses him once Erik has recovered, “but not you, my boy. You are stronger. You are better.”
He punctuates his words with another deep, hard kiss, teeth clashing against Erik’s, and Erik tries to keep the bile threatening to rise at bay.
They are in Schmidt’s office as per usual. But the guard who brough him here was tense, this morning, and Erik can sense that Herr Doktor is, too. His hands are gripping him as they usually do, but his touch is not as bruising. And he keeps the kiss short, does not force more on Erik. Does not tell him to undress, does not push him to his knees or on his back.
The air seems heavy with anticipation to Erik. As if Herr Doktor were waiting for something to happen. As if he were dreading something about to happen.
It puts Erik on edge, that feeling. It makes him fumble when Herr Doktor orders him to demonstrate his powers, when he orders him to shape weapons from the scrap metal he presents Erk with. The gun Erik makes does not shoot. The knife he forms is not sharp enough for Schmidt’s liking. And when Erik is ordered to barricade the office door using its hinges, his barricade is not strong enough to withstand the force Herr Doktor uses to wrench it open.
Herr Doktor is displeased by that. Worse, he is angry.
But he does not hit Erik. Does not choke him. This, more than anything else, makes a ball of dread curl low in Erik’s stomach.
Herr Doktor sits down at his desk instead, elbows propped up, fists under his chin. He is staring at Erik, who is standing in front of the desk, feeling very small under Herr Doktor’s gaze. Small, and vulnerable.
“I’ve taught you better than this, mein Junge,” Herr Doktor says, voice curling around the words my boy, dragging them out, tasting them. “Yet you continue to disappoint me. Why?”
Erik opens his mouth. But terror, inexplicably worse than it has been ever before, keeps his words trapped. His tongue will not move. His hands are trembling, he notices distantly. Fear has made his entire body weak.
“Hm,” Herr Doktor makes when Erik fails to reply. “Well. If you want it to be that way.”
He reaches out. His hand moves slowly, towards the bell on his desk. He rings it, loudly, and the sound makes Erik flinch. He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t know why it feels as if something awful were about to happen. As if Herr Doktor were about to- to-
A guard appears. Erik flinches as he steps inside the room, his body reflexively curling in on itself. Herr Doktor, watching him, smiles thinly.
“Tu, was wir besprochen haben,” he says to the guard, do what we talked about, “now.”
The guard nods and exits. His eyes linger on Erik, he can feel it. He is trembling all over now, faint little tremors.
“What-”
Herr Doktor stands up suddenly, chair scraping across the floor. The movement, the sound, shock Erik into stillness. Herr Doktor smiles down at him. He looks imposing like this. Threatening.
“If you don’t comply,” he says, words coming slow, as if he were tasting each one individually, enjoying them, “I will have to make you listen. I am very disappointed in you, Erik. I thought I’d showed you how to be better than this. I thought all my troubles, all the time I invested in you had finally paid off. But it appears I was wrong about that.”
Erik opens his mouth. Whether to defend himself, to beg, or ask again, he does not know. But he does not get the chance to speak. Behind him, the door opens again. He can hear the sounds of two people coming into the room, heavy, quick footsteps and much lighter ones, hesitant.
Behind him, there is a gasp.
“Erik?”
He whirls around. It’s his mother, standing there, eyes large and terrified, held in the guard’s unforgiving grasp. The man’s hand is closed around her biceps, a grip Erik knows is bruising. Mama looks small, standing here in Herr Doktor’s office, and terrified.
Erik lets out a sound he cannot control, full of terror.
“Mama!”
He moves as if to run to her, to wrench her from the guard’s hold, but Herr Doktor speaks up, voice cutting through the air like a whip.
“Stop.”
Edie’s eyes snap to Herr Doktor. Erik stills. He is tense all over; his heart is beating much too fast. Why did they bring her here? Why did they bring his mother here?
“Look at me, boy.”
Erik does not want to. He doesn’t. He does not want to look away from his mother. It feels as if she will disappear the moment he takes his eyes off her. But he has no choice. Herr Doktor gave him an order. He has to obey.
He turns, slowly. His hands are trembling, clenched into fists. He can feel his mother’s fearful gaze in his back, can feel her presence. He swallows and makes himself look at Schmidt.
Herr Doktor is holding a gun.
Erik’s breath stutters to a halt.
He can feel the metal in Herr Doktor’s hand, can feel the power in it, the bullet singing to him inside the gun. He can feel it, but he can’t- He can’t-
He can’t control it.
Herr Doktor is looking at him steadily. There is something in his eyes, an expression, a twist of his lips. Perhaps it is trying to be a smile.
“You have excellent control over your powers, my boy,” he says, “at least usually. But you didn’t listen, today. And I am sick of you not listening. You get one chance, Erik. One chance to obey me or your mother is dead.”
He shifts, points the gun at Edie, now. Erik can hear her, the terrified breath she sucks in.
He turns. Slowly, slowly, he turns. He is caught in the middle now, between Herr Doktor and his mother. She is crying, Mama is crying, eyes large and terrified. She is still being held in place by the guard, and she does not make a sound.
Herr Doktor cocks the gun.
Erik can feel it, can feel the metal shifting. But he cannot grasp it, he cannot control it. His powers slide off the weapon uselessly. His terror has made him useless, his fear of losing his mother. He can feel the gun, can feel the bullet, and he cannot- He cannot control it.
Outside, someone shouts. A deep voice, loud and strong. A guard, perhaps.
Erik cannot make out the words. He does not care. His word has narrowed down to just this: His mother’s terrified face, and the gun he can feel and not control.
“Erik,” Mama says, her voice hoarse, shaking, “Erik, remember. I love you, ich liebe dich. You are not like him. You are not like him. Ich liebe dich Erik, ich-”
Herr Doktor shoots.
Erik can feel it, can feel the metal move, the bullet flying through the air, quick and deadly. He screams, the sound ripping out of his throat, terrified and desperate. His hand thrusts forward, balled into a fist, to catch the bullet in the air, to stop it, to save his mother.
But he cannot control it. His terror has made him weak. The fear rolling deep inside of him, the disgust, the weakness, they incapacitate him.
The bullet flies. Erik powers lash out uselessly, bending metal hinges and the legs of Herr Doktor’s desk, melting the gun in Herr Doktor’s hand, but never touching the bullet.
The bullet flies, unstoppable, straight at Edie. Through Edie, clean through her forehead, leaving a small, bloody hole.
She falls. Her feet give in, her body crumbles. The guard releases her and she falls to the floor, lifeless.
Dead. Dead.
Erik can feel the bullet inside of her now, hateful, deadly metal, embedded in his mother’s skull.
His mother is lying on the floor. She isn’t moving, she isn’t blinking, she isn’t breathing. She is dead. She is dead, and Erik- Erik-
“You failed,” Herr Doktor’s voice comes from behind him, sounding almost bored, “you truly have been slacking off, my b-”
Erik screams.
He can feel himself shattering in the worst way. A part of him is truly breaking, a part that will never heal again. All the pain inside of him, the grief and terror – it all breaks. It shatters something else inside of him too: His barrier, his inhibition. Grief destroys the walls Erik has built inside of himself to keep himself sane. His mess of feelings, all the pain, the fear, the humiliation, burst out of him with uncontrollable force, turned into rage by his loss.
He screams, and he reaches out without thinking about it. Now, his powers come back with full force and the metal in the room flies up, lifted by his command: Herr Doktor’s molten gun, the table legs, the instruments, every pen and screw. The door hinges break off, the door splinters apart, and the metal from the next room comes clashing inside as well. It all hovers in the air, various object sharpened, with new pointed edges, pieces trembling and creaking with the sheer force of Eriks powers.
Erik cannot think. He cannot think about consequences, about Herr Doktor being stronger than him in every regard, about being overpowered and being killed for this act of defiance. He can only think of his mother, his strong, loving mother, lying dead on the floor. Her lifeless body, her empty eyes. Dead, because Herr Doktor killed her. Dead, because Erik wasn’t strong enough to stop him.
Erik attacks. He puts all his power, all his love and loss and hate behind it, and hurls the weapons he has created, the mess of metal at Herr Doktor. Sharp points and blades, pure mass and weight, all hurled at Herr Doktor. Meant to hurt, meant to kill.
Herr Doktor only laughs.
He gets up, extends his arms. Embraces the weapon Erik has created. It hits him in the chest, metal clawing into him, piercing his skin. But he does not bleed. He does not scream. He only absorbs it, the power, his body shaking with it, twitching as he consumes all that Erik threw at him, absorbing it and making it his own.
The metal falls to the floor uselessly, clanging to the ground, and each sound makes Erik flinch, makes him twitch and cower. Herr Doktor stands before him, and Erik could swear he is glowing now, a thin sheen of power all around him.
“Mein Junge,” he says, and there is something awful in his voice, something satisfied, “you truly never learn.”
And with that, Herr Doktor attacks.
*
The world is dark around him. There is no light, there is no movement. Just pitch-black darkness, all-consuming and endless. Erik is- Erik is on the floor?
He cannot tell. He tries to move, to lift his head, open his eyes. But even just attempting to shift his legs sends a searing stab of pain through him. A whimper escapes him, a tortured sound.
It is as if it breaks down a barrier.
Suddenly, sound comes rushing back. The dull humps of footsteps hitting the ground, the reverberations he can feel in his body. The sound of voices, shouting, ear-splittingly loud. The firing of bullets. Erik wants to hide, wants to curl up and die. He does not want to be noticed. He cannot- he cannot take it again. Whatever Herr Doktor did to him, he will not be able to survive it again.
Another sound makes it out of his throat, a low moan of pain. The voices are loud all around him, shouting in German and other languages he cannot understand, harsh words barking orders. No, Erik begs inside of his head, no, I can’t, I can’t, not again, don’t touch me, please, Herr Doktor, no-
Footsteps approach, loud and unforgiving. They make their way towards him, stop in front of him. He cannot see it, but he can hear it. Can feel someone’s presence close to him, someone looming over him. Erik bites his tongue and tries to pull his knees up, to curl in on himself. To hide, to shield himself.
“This one is still alive!”
The shout is loud, and Erik flinches.
“Nein,” he begs, a low moan, “nein, bitte-”
But no amount of no and please stops them from touching him. Rough hands, male hands, big and unforgiving, much stronger than him. They roll him over, on to his back, and Errik knows this, he knows this. He knows what will happen now. They will yank off his clothes, will lay him bare. Herr Doktor’s hands will wander over his ribcage, down his front, until he is gripping Erik’s skinny thighs, wrenching them apart. And then he will- He will-
“He’s still alive,” that same voice shouts again, and there is a note of impatience in his tone now, “come on, help. He’s Jewish. Skinny. They probably locked him in here. Come on, help me, bring the-”
The voice fades. There is a rushing sound in Erik’s head, one that drowns out everything else, getting louder and louder. The hands return, holding his shoulders now. They are strong and they are large. But they do not push him down, do not strip him. They lift him up instead, along with another pair of hands on his legs.
Two. Two men, two-
Herr Doktor and- Herr Doktor and a guard maybe. Two pairs of hands on him.
No, no, no, no, no-
Erik opens his mouth. To beg, to scream, to cry. But he cannot make a sound. The hands lift him up into the air, and the rushing sound inside his head grows louder and louder still-
He is in pain; he is in so much pain-
He is set down again. The movement shifts him, he is lying differently now, and it hurts like this, it hurt, its hurts, it-
The rushing stops. The fear dies down. The world, the sounds, the voices, the smells and feelings – they all grow quiet. Far-away. It all fades until only blackness is left, only silence and the dark.
The last thing Erik sees in his mind’s eye before everything fades away, is his mother’s face. Mama’s face in front of him, eyes large and fearful and yet filled with so much love. Love for him, unconditional. Love she had until her very last moment.
He blacks out.